“Yes, please come inside,” I instructed, while keeping a firm arm around my mother. They waited in the entryway until I ushered them into the living room, making sure my mother was in a comfortable position on the couch.
“Please have a seat,” I motioned to the other couch, as the officers took a seat in front of us.
Master Sergeant Blackwood, spoke first, “I have been asked to inform you that your Husband, Sergeant First Class Zeke Dorian Buchanan was killed in action in Kabul, Afghanistan at 5:30 pm on November 7th, 2018. On the behalf of the Secretary of Defense, I extend to you and your family my deepest sympathy in your great loss.”
It was too fucking robotic. The man had probably repeated that exact phrase hundreds... no maybe thousands of times in the past. He stared at my mother and me, a completely blank slate, the epitome of an emotionless zombie. If he felt sympathetic, he sure as shit didn’t show it in his eyes. There was nothing there--no remorse--no sadness. Just the mechanics of a man who had to sit in front of families like ours every day, repeating the same sad phrase over and over again.
She was too quiet, staring at the men sitting in front of her like she was watching a movie and nothing they were saying was real.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” Captain Patterson asked, waving a hand in front of her catatonic expression. He raised his voice a bit, almost like he thought she’d suddenly gone deaf. “We’re here to tell you that your husband was killed in action while serving his country. We are so sorry about your loss.”
A single tear shimmied its way down her cheek, a catalyst for the wailing banshee she became next. My mother’s unnerving sobs filled every space in the room, and her whole body felt like a heavy weight against me as she grasped at my shirt, barely able to hold herself together. I felt like a single frayed thread, desperately trying to hang on as the rest of the strands unraveled around me.
The Chaplain, a man with poise and decency, moved across the room and sat next to us. He grasped my mother’s hand, and forced her to look him in the eyes.
“Ma’am, we are so sorry about your loss. Please know that the United States Army is here to support you in whatever way you need.” She gripped his hand tightly, only stopping her sobs when she fought to take a breath.
“H—he can’t be gone. I—I just talked to him four days ago.”
I remembered the conversation well, my father wanted to know what was going on with his club while he was away, and I filled him in on everything. We had just recruited a new prospect, a guy named Gareth that I went to school with. He spent six years in the Navy as a Submariner before he ETS’d out of the military. My father was impressed that I managed to recruit him, and when he found out that Gareth was a Pisces, and served his time under the ocean, he laughed and said, “Hell yeah, we finally got a guppy.”
“Guppy?”
“The Pisces’ Zodiac symbol is two ying and yang fish, and the dude literally spent years under the ocean, so yeah, he's a fucking Guppy, or you can call him Minnow, or Bait, something fishy like that.”
“What if we just call him Fish?”
“I like it, but I think you should still call him the other names, too. Might be fun.” I could feel my father’s mirth through the phone. The utter joy he got out of ribbing prospects was infectious. But the club had been without a prospect for a while, so getting a new one was huge for us. Most men backed out once they found out we weren’t a 1% club. Their idea of a true motorcycle club was the ones that liked to play dirty--the clubs most people ran away from when they saw them driving down the road because they were all about, whores, drugs, and running guns. That wasn’t the Celestial Sons. We weren’t like the 1% MC’s that rode around Rising Star. We were a club of good men with strong values who would do anything for their community and even more for the family we built together. But where the Hell’s Artillery, a local club of one percenters liked to pick fights, we were the ones who chose to walk away instead of throwing the first punch.
“We will. I think the other men would like that. Hell, I know I would. Gareth’s a great guy, but he’s super easy to piss off.” Which makes my father’s idea for his club name even better in my book.
My father chuckled, but then his voice dropped into a more serious tone. “Son, how’s your mom doing?”
“She’s doing fine.”
“Don’t you lie to me, Boy. How the hell is she really doing?”
Fuck. I didn’t want to tell him that part--the part where she sat outside on the back patio, drinking a bottle of wine, staring off into space for the better part of the day. The part that kept her from doing housework, leaving the once spotless house a cluttered mess of piling up bills, unfolded laundry, and dirty dishes. I did my best to help her when I could, but since Dad left for his deployment, I’d also taken on a lot of responsibilities at the club, leaving my mother home alone to fend for herself. She wasn’t good, not in the least. But for him she played the part, even though she was suffering without him on the inside.
“She’s been better.”
“Define better.”
I glanced over at my mother who was currently staring at the wall, a glazed-over look infecting her deep brown eyes. She had no idea who was on the phone, that was evident in the somber expression plaguing her face.
“She misses you, Dad. It’s hard for her when you’re gone like this.”
He sighed. “Put her on the phone. Love you, Son.”
“Love you too, Dad.” I got up from the stool at the kitchen counter and walked over to where my mother was sitting in the living room. “Hey, Mom, it’s Dad.”
The light danced in her eyes as she greedily took the phone from me. It was like she was a totally different person when she talked to him, the light normally inside her, always shined brighter for him. “Zeke! Oh my god! I’m so glad you’re okay…” I didn’t listen to the rest of their conversation, that was a privacy I didn’t want to intrude on, but had I known that would be the last time I ever said I love you to my father, I may have begged for the phone back instead of walking away like I did.
Now I was facing three men, watching that already broken shell of my mother shatter completely.
“It’s not true. It can’t be true!” she screamed.
Nothing. Not one single tear was shed in that moment by me. I didn’t cry at his funeral, and I didn’t cry in all the years that followed his death. No. I stayed strong for her, knowing damn well the second I showed any weakness, my mother would crumble apart and there would be no hope of keeping her together. Staying strong was the only thing that helped us survive the last two years after my father’s passing. My mother, while still broken, was slowly becoming human again, but me, I just stayed the same still-life statue I was that day--a superficial granite that seemed unbreakable. I didn’t think there was anything that could break me, but the second my club gave me my father’s most prized possession, his old bike Galaxy, all that sadness I’d been hiding behind my granite walls spewed out of me, leaving me a blubbering mess of mourning despair.
